We talk. We drink. And the entire time, Julian keeps his hand on my thigh. He asks me what my favorite food is. I lie and say sushi. He tells me he has a complicated relationship with “food that swims” because he almost drowned as a child. I try my best not to cringe.
His hand stays on me, warm and entitled, occasionally trying to slide higher. I tell him to stop. He doesn’t listen. They never do. It tells me what kind of man he is. Arrogant. Pompous. A menace to society. Someone who thinks they can have any girl they want. And frankly, with a magazine-perfect face like that — full lips, long eyelashes, chiseled jawline — this one probably can. But where’s the fun in that, right? The ego might be big, but the allure of the chase is bigger. Guys like him are only attracted to another woman if she seems unattainable.
The word “no” is a challenge. It makes their blood run hot.
We finish our drinks and this time I’m the one who orders us another round.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Ashley?” Jack asks mockingly, taking a big, sloppy sip of his whiskey sour.
“Something like that.”
He grins. “You’re really fucking hot. Anyone ever tell you that?” His eyes are glazed, his face is flushed, and he’s sitting way too close to me for my liking.
I force a smile back.
That seems to make him happy. He looks at me with wide eyes, pupils slightly dilated and leans forward to kiss me with his dumb mouth.
I push him back with two fingers to his forehead. “Not so fast. Finish your drink first.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that.” His hand inches up my thigh.
I slap it away. “I said,finish. Your drink.”
Reluctantly, he pulls himself back into an upright position, pouting like an angry toddler, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, trying to figure out what to do next. Josh is getting quite tipsy and talkative now. It’d be easy enough to take him out back and push a sharpened piano wire inside through the corner of his eye, straight into the brain. There would be no external sign of damage. It would look like he just had a brain hemorrhage. It wouldn’t even look like a murder. I read it in some mystery novel once. Always wanted to try it. Sure, I’d have to get him unconscious for that, but that won’t be hard considering how much he’s had to drink.
I rearrange my hair in the mirror and pluck a stray eyelash from my cheek.
I could also just tie him to a chair, slice his Achilles tendons, then watch him step forward and tear his ankles apart.
Hmm. I don’t know, though. That seems like a lot of work.
Tonight, I’m in the mood for something simple. Something efficient, yet gory. Something that will ensure I’m asleep in my own bed within the next two hours. What to do, what to do.“Good god, why the fuck is this so hard to decide?” I think out loud.
Thankfully there’s no one else in the bathroom stall. I don’t want people thinking I’m some crazy psychopath who talks to herself about a murder that hasn’t even happened yet. That would be so embarrassing.
I rummage through my bag, pushing aside my scrubs and scalpel to reach my strawberry lip gloss stashed deep at the bottom. Squaring my shoulders, I apply a fresh coat and exit the bathroom. Walking back across the club, I convince Jackson to stay for fifteen more minutes, just to ensure he drinks more. After about an hour or so, Cami hands me my coat and I grab the rest of my belongings and settle the tab — it’s the least I can do given what’s about to happen to him soon — and offer to walk him back to his apartment.
“You’re so pretty,” he says as we exit the club, walking together toward the intersection.
I press the walk button to stop the traffic. “I’m already going home with you, there’s no need to fluff my ego.”
The night is clear, clusters of stars decorating the sky and a full moon illuminating the rows of Brownstones. We keep walking and Jameson leans on me, blabbering something about my hair or my eyes, his whiskey breath falling flat against my shoulder.
Ten minutes later, we enter his apartment. I tell him I need to pee.
“Sure …” he slurs. “It’s uh … the bathroom’s that way, to the left …”
“Thanks.” I push the bathroom door open with my hip, careful not to touch anything, turn on the light switch, and…oh myGod.
Bright green wallpaper. Doilies and potpourri bowls, flowers stenciled around the mirror, pink cherub-shaped soaps in a basket — wow. Did a Martha Stewart ad throw up in here?
Shaking my head, I pull out the blue nitrile gloves from my bag and slip them on, stretching my fingers, enjoying the way the material feels around my skin.
Taking a second to admire my wig in the mirror above the sink, I call out to him.
“Yeah?” he shouts back.
“Um, can you please help me with my top? I spilled something on it, and I need to take it off.”
